


Toss It Back

by coverofnight



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coverofnight/pseuds/coverofnight
Summary: Another drink, another moment of clarity.





	Toss It Back

**Author's Note:**

> Not my usual style. Just trying something new. :)

Gloves off. Hair let down. Dinner served. You wait for a moment of reprieve. Deep breath in, then exhale.

Your eyes follow steam as it dances up into the air. Your fork clangs against the plate. The first bite tastes of life. 

At the table, you pause to feel life’s blood run inside you. It courses through your veins, forces that rhythmic sound to boom inside your chest, flows so heavily to your head that it aches. 

The place is quiet, save for that little fish swishing away in the tank behind you. And, of course, the Edith Piaf record you left playing upstairs. She eases the ache in your soul, as does the shot of vodka you’ve just tossed back. 

When reprieve comes, you finally let your mind wander to Vera, who walks barefooted and free on a beach somewhere on the other side of the country. Her hair curls and blows wildly as she looks out to the sea. She finds solace in the water’s cool embrace. No strings attached. 

And you...well, you are sat here in this pit of heartache and loneliness unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. 

The drink lessens the blow of that realization and you’re grateful. 

Though the loss cuts deep, you recognize the necessity of it. It was Vera’s move. The right one, too. She needed to learn how to stand alone. You, more than anyone, can understand that. 

But your recognition does nothing to ease the ache of setting her place at the table out of habit. Or caressing her green cardigan hanging by the front door. Or the way her inferior choice of music has crept into the recesses of your mind.

At work, you hum those tunes, the ones that somehow bastardize the classical music you prefer and make you wish you hadn’t heard them at all. 

The memories consume you as your meal disappears from your plate. Piaf plays in hushed, haunted tones in the background. In her voice, you feel your loss completely and, suddenly, the vodka you’ve set out for yourself doesn’t seem like enough. 

You rise from the table with a sense of purpose that carries you to where you keep your stash. That clear liquid you’ve come to rely on these weeks seduces you like so many nights before. You pour it, toss it back, feel it slither down your throat. Things are clearer now. 

“I spend my life doing penance for things I never should have done in the first place,” you say aloud. It’s a line from that old Joan Crawford flick you and Vera enjoyed so much together. 

But that was before. 

Without Vera, the days are long. Hours tick by at a snail’s pace. The prisoners’ hoots and hollers echo inside your bones. Your uniform, now pressed and ready for your body to occupy it again in the morning, is dead weight on your shoulders. 

Channing’s presence casts a shadow over the entire operation. He lies in wait, hoping and praying that you stuff things up. Even you know it’s more likely to happen now than before. 

Another drink, another moment of clarity. 

You remember that new prisoner this afternoon who dared to whistle in your direction. The sound took you by surprise, and when you turned, you saw what might have been a spitting image of Vera. Younger, smaller, and, in some ways, fiercer than you. The sight of her made you wish drinking at work were permissible. 

Even now, standing over the kitchen sink, you can’t scrub the image of the girl from your mind. The mousy brown hair pulled back into a tight bun. The slim shoulders, tiny waist. Hands in her pockets. Hungry blue eyes eating you up. 

Your drink is within reach, just an arm’s length over. Wet, soapy fingers reach for it and bring the glass to your lips. You toss it back. 

Upstairs, you see a blurred vision of Vera standing at the foot of your bed. She stretches her arms out and, in a stupor, you go to her. 

It is she who helps you dress for bed. It is she who, like a mother, tucks you in. Kisses your clammy forehead. Wishes you sweet dreams. And disappears into the night. 

By morning, you forget she was ever there. 

By morning, your head aches. 

Your body resists rising from the depths of sleep. 

Your mind forges a new path forward. 

At Wentworth, you eye the young prisoner who no longer dares to call out for you. In the morning’s clarity, she has nothing of Vera, but reeks of failure and disappointment. 

_ Like you.  _

Self-hatred smacks you in the face, as it often does on hard days. You’re anxious for tonight’s drink, tonight’s comforting vision. If luck is on your side, Vera will stay. Hold you. Help you get through the night. No strings attached.

Someday soon, you'll have no choice but to set her free. 

 


End file.
